


the road that stretches out ahead

by hellodeer



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8610811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellodeer/pseuds/hellodeer
Summary: "What if we drove to France?" Viktor asks, and Yuuri says yes. Of course he does.
(chinese translation here!)





	1. Chapter 1

**December 1st, 2016, a cold Thursday in Viktor’s apartment, 7AM**

In Viktor’s open, white kitchen, the sun waving hello through the thin curtains on the windows, Viktor kisses Yuuri lazily, licking the last remains of sleep from his lips. Yuuri hums into the kiss, hands coming up to the back of Viktor’s head, fingers tangled in his soft hair. Through the buzz in his head he hears a _pop!_ , and he breaks the kiss to laugh quietly against Viktor’s mouth.

“The omelettes are burning, Viktor,” he says, blinking slowly. Viktor’s face is so close to his, their noses touching, Yuuri has to go cross-eyed to look at him. He makes sure to always keep his glasses perfectly clean, no speck of dust or fingerprints to stop him from seeing Viktor’s lovely features.

“And?” Viktor says, his cold hands sneaking under Yuuri’s shirt. Yuuri shivers. Sitting on the kitchen counter, he’s as tall as Viktor, who grins lopsided, mischievous and bright.

“And I’m hungry,” Yuuri says. He softly kicks Viktor’s shin with a sock-clad foot, and Viktor sighs deeply.

“Yes, yes,” he says. He nuzzles Yuuri’s cheek, then kisses it and steps out of between Yuuri’s legs, turning his attention to the stove.

Yuuri watches as he tries save the eggs, mumbles to himself in Russian, heart so full it’s threatening to spill all over his feet. He loves this man, who stands in his kitchen in sleep-soft clothes, who has long eyelashes and longer fingers, who kisses Yuuri like this is the exact place where he wants to be.

Viktor presents Yuuri with a slightly brown omelette, saying “Ta-da!” like he’s very proud of himself. Yuuri kisses him as thanks. Viktor hops on the counter beside him.

“How is it?” he ask, after Yuuri takes his first bite.

“Not horrible,” Yuuri says, which is true. Viktor’s been getting better at cooking, since they arrived in St. Petersburg three weeks ago and he decided he would make Yuuri healthy, balanced meals.

Viktor pouts. Yuuri laughs at him.

After they’re done with the omelettes, Yuuri reaches for the brown paper bag next the to basket with fake fruit and takes a syrniki out of it. He breaks it in two, deposits one half in Viktor’s plate and eats the other.

“So,” Viktor starts. He’s fully turned towards Yuuri now, body twisted sideways to face him. His feet are propped on top of Yuuri’s; Yuuri can feel how cold they are even through his socks. Viktor seems to have a personal vendetta against socks, and never wears them unless he has skates on. “I have an idea!”

Yuuri narrows his eyes at him. Viktor’s ideas have ranged from “Maybe it’s better to have a triple Salchow instead of a quadruple,” to “Do you think your mother would like this potted plant for the inn?” to “Let’s go to karaoke and do a live-stream for all our fans!”

“What is it?” he asks, wary, but Viktor smiles, open and sunny, and Yuuri knows he will agree to whatever Viktor wants.

“What if we drove to France?”

Yuuri blinks at him. Frowns, thinking maybe Viktor’s forgotten the shape of planes.

“Why?”

Viktor’s smile turns soft, the corners of his lips loose with love and affection. He scoots closer to Yuuri, touches their foreheads.

“Because that way I can spend more time with you,” he says.

They go to the rink every day at eight, where Yuuri skates with Mila and Georgi and Yurio and Viktor gets on Yakov’s nerves. They have lunch together, and Viktor doesn’t accompany him into ballet and gym, but they meet up to go back to Viktor’s apartment. Sometimes Viktor takes him around St. Petersburg, sometimes they see Viktor’s sister at the ballet. Sometimes Yurio, angry and loud and fifteen, has dinner at their place. One time Viktor’s brother came over with his wife and their baby. They have sex, and they sleep pressed into each other, sweaty and warm. They wake up in the same bed every morning.

Which is to say, they spend most of their time together, but Yuuri thinks he knows what Viktor means, how it’d be different with just the two of them in a car for he doesn’t know how many days. It terrifies him how that thought doesn’t make him claustrophobic, doesn’t make him want to run screaming.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Viktor’s eyes shine, twin pools of adoration. He squeaks happily and kisses Yuuri.

 

**9:36AM**

Yuuri rolls his suitcase through the building’s garage, ten cars parked though Viktor only has six neighbors, all of them rich people from actors to plastic surgeons. He makes a beeline for Viktor’s grey Porsche, but Viktor says “No, not that one,” and leads Yuuri to a black Ford Maverick that looks old and beat-up but clean, shiny, loved.

“I like cars,” Viktor says, throwing the car keys in the air and catching them.

“I know,” Yuuri nods, because he’s read it more than once in magazines, _Hobbies: cars, watching movies, reading comics_ , sometimes above _Favorite food: pirozhki_ , sometimes below _What he’s currently listening to: Yulia Savicheva_.

Viktor puts their suitcases in the trunk while Yuuri gets on the passenger seat, puts his seatbelt on.

“Ready for an adventure?” Viktor asks, after he’s all settled in, grinning, hair falling in his face.

It was Yuuri’s birthday a couple of days ago. Viktor brought him breakfast in bed, a typical Japanese one that he made himself, the rice soggy and the noodles undercooked. He fucked Yuuri slow, made him come twice. He kissed the top of Yuuri’s head and gave him a silver ring with _I love you_ written on the inside. Yuuri cried, thought _How can I be this lucky?_

“Yes,” Yuuri says. “Anywhere with you.”

They go.

 

**11:05AM**

The scenery changes, from St. Petersburg’s low buildings to frosted trees, the grass covered in snow. Viktor drives carefully, because there’s traffic and because the road is slippery, dangerous. It’s warm inside the car, the heater noisy but functional, steady. Yuuri watches the landscape, or he watches Viktor, or he watches Viktor against the landscape. He is very beautiful when he is lost in though, which he often is. That’s what most people don’t know Viktor: he thinks so, so much. Too much, sometimes, more than Yuuri.

Viktor catches him looking, but Yuuri doesn’t blush, doesn’t avert his gaze. He smiles, small, no teeth, and Viktor smiles back.

“Sorry, I’m boring,” he says. Yuuri thinks, _never_. “I’m sure there’s a CD somewhere, maybe in the glove compartment?”

“Okay,” Yuuri says. He opens the compartment and three things fall out: a tissue box, a book, and a CD.

“Oops,” Viktor says, winking at Yuuri.

Yuuri rolls his eyes at him, bends to pick up first the tissue box, then the CD, then the book. The box he puts back in the glove compartment, closes it. The CD, which doesn’t come with a case, he inserts in the CD player (“I had it modified!” Viktor says enthusiastically, when Yuuri points out this car is too old for its panel. “With my uncle!”). It fills the car with the opening chords of a beautiful, sad piano piece.

“Oh,” Yuuri says. “That’s your short program song from the 2005 season.”

Viktor’s seen the framed photo of him Yuuri forgot to hide in his bedroom back home. He’s seen Yuuri’s posters and magazines, tucked under Yuuri’s bed. Yuko has told him all about how they used to imitate him, and how Yuuri named his dog Vicchan, and how, for a couple of months, they ran the most popular Viktor Nikiforov fansite in Japan.

So when Viktor huffs out a laugh it’s not mean, not meant to embarrass Yuuri. It’s fond and delighted, soft, awed.

“Yes,” he says, smiling. “This must be from my junior days.”

Yuuri hums along to the song. The book he picked up is not actually a book, but the first volume of _Ranma 1/2_. He remembers his sister used to read it, vaguely knows the story and the characters, but he opens it and it’s all Russian, no kanji or hiragana.

He considers asking his sister for manga recommendations. Viktor would probably like shoujo best.

 

**2:56PM**

Viktor has kotlety with mashed potatoes and black tea for lunch, while Yuuri has chicken noodle soup. After a shared slice of chocolate cake for desert, they sit in the mostly empty roadside restaurant and call their families. Viktor talks quickly to his mother, updates about their current whereabouts, Yuuri imagines.

Then he video-chats Mari and asks, in Japanese, “The dog, please, Mari-san!”, accent strong and heavy. He gives Mari his most charming smile, the one that makes girls and boys go weak at the knees, but she continues to look unimpressed, says _hai, hai_ and leaves to get Makkachin.

Viktor’s face falls. “She doesn’t like me,” he says, and Yuuri, aware of their waitress watching them like a hawk, pats Viktor’s knee under the table.

He would have done the same, would have groveled at Viktor’s sister’s feet, but she took one look at him when they met and squeaked in delight, so he didn’t need to.

“What was that?” his mom asks on the phone, and Yuuri turns his attention back to the conversation. Beside him, Viktor looks happy again, sending Makkachin kisses while she licks the screen.

“Just Vitya being overdramatic,” Yuuri says, not trying to keep the fondness out of his voice.

“Vitya?” his mom asks.

“Oh,” Yuuri goes. He flushes, fumbles with the zipper on his jacket. “That’s what the Russians call him.”

Yuuri hasn’t gone home since the Cup of China, because they took a plane straight to Russia for the Rostelecom Cup, but he’s talked to his mom every day, to his dad and sister a couple of times. They haven’t brought up Viktor kissing him on international television, haven’t said anything about Yuuri’s reaction to it. He doesn’t know what that means, which leaves him worried and anxious.

 _Cross that bridge when you get to it, Yuuri_ , Viktor told him once, after hugging him and rubbing his back. And this is what he’ll do: tell his family Viktor is the love of his life, tell his family he is happy.

“I see!” his mom says brightly, changes the subject to the viewing party they’ll throw for the entire town to see Yuuri in the Grand Prix Final.

 

**6:20PM**

The hum of the road and the quiet violin piece on the radio lull him to sleep, head cushioned against the window. He dreams he’s on the ice, and Viktor is there too, young and long-haired, spinning endlessly.

He tries to skate closer, but he notices he doesn’t have feet, or legs, or a body at all.

Viktor continues to spin and jump, spin and jump, his body a silver blur cutting through the air. Suddenly he’s in front of Yuuri, in a white, long-sleeved shirt and grey pants, hair pulled back in a ponytail high on his head.

“You know this will be over soon, right?” he asks, soft and sweet, voice like honey. Yuuri says something, though he has no face or mouth or voice. Viktor gives him the saddest smile he’s ever seen. “Of course I do. But what are you, new?”

He wakes up and he’s crying, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. Viktor is holding his left hand, their fingers intertwined, resting on Yuuri’s seat.

 

**8PM**

They stop close to the border. Latvia is just a few kilometers away but Viktor’s too tired, blinking slowly and heavily at the wheel. They find a small, smelly hotel, old and dirty. Viktor talks to the lady at the front desk cheerfully, even when she just grumbles and rudely shoves a key in Viktor’s hand.

Yuuri stands a few paces back, terrified. Viktor turns his head to Yuuri and smiles, asks “Is a double room okay, Yuuri?”

Yuuri’s heart soars. Viktor’s smile is gentle and tired, no sharp edges to it. Yuuri wants to reach out and touch the insides of Viktor’s wrists, wants to trail kisses down the bridge of his nose, his neck, his chest. He looks at Viktor, and he _wants_.

“Yes,” he says. “Of course.”


	2. Chapter 2

**December 2nd, 2016, a Friday somewhere close to Latvia, 8:07AM**

Their breakfast is watery tea and tasteless blinis, because all they could find was a cheap, dirty and stuffed roadside restaurant. Yuuri eats slowly while Viktor eyes the food warily.

“Passport?” Viktor asks after they’re done. He keeps trying to play footsie with Yuuri under the table.

“Oh,” Yuuri says, fingers closing around their passports inside his backpack. “I forgot them.”

“Yuuri!” Viktor says, scandalized. His eyes are huge. He runs a hand through his hair. “What are we going to do? We’ll have to drive _all the way back_.”

He looks close to putting his face in his hands and spending the next thirty minutes mulling over the unfairness of the universe and forgetful boyfriends, so Yuuri retrieves the passports from his backpack and presents them to Viktor, smirking with a “Just kidding.”

“Yuuri!” Viktor says again. He sounds shocked, like he always does when Yuuri manages to trick him. “You awful man.”

Viktor tuts at him, but he looks caught between laughter and fondness. It’s a good look on him, softening the hard edges of his eyes and his mouth.

They get in the car and Yuuri drives this time. This close to the border there’s a bit of traffic, trucks and a few cars lining up, but they get to the booth in twenty minutes to a bleary-eyed officer bundled up in an enormous coat.

He says something in Russian, which Yuuri assumes to be “passports, please.” Then he blinks, takes a good look at the people inside the car.

“Oh,” he says. “Nikiforov.”

“Good morning, officer!” Viktor says in Russian, smiling charmingly at the man. Figure skating is not even that popular of a sport, but Viktor is like a Hollywood celebrity, getting recognized everywhere he goes. The video of their kiss at the Cup of China was close to two million views the last time Yuuri checked, too.

The man asks for an autograph and Viktor gives him one, even offers a selfie. The officer chuckles and asks for their passports again. Then he lets them go.

It’s cold and bleak outside, but the road is free of snow, so Yuuri steps on the gas. He learned to drive in the U.S, twenty years old and people snickering at him, asking “you can’t _drive_?”, until he got so furious he decided to prove that yes, he could.

Viktor is delighted. He rolls down the window, sticks his head out and hollers.

“You’ll catch a cold, Viktor,” Yuuri says, but he smiles. Drives a little bit faster.

“You’re no fun!” Viktor yells. Yuuri rolls his eyes at him.

After a minute or two Viktor closes the window. He’s giggling, his eyes bright and warm.

Yuuri extends one hand out to touch his wet hair, wonders how much longer he’ll have Viktor within arms reach.

 

**9:34AM**

Viktor frowns down at his phone.

“Marina says I got a letter,” he says. He left his sister in charge of picking up his mail, which is mostly bills and newspapers he doesn’t read. His face breaks into a sunny grin. “Maybe it’s from the president again?”

After the Cup of China, in addition to a stern talking to, which he endured with a lowered head and mumbled apologizes, Viktor also got a letter from the president of the International Skating Union, condemning him for _actions unworthy of a coach_ , _tremendous selfishness_ , and _public displays that bring shame to the sport._

He had the letter framed and hung in his bedroom wall, opposite the bed. They look at it every morning after they wake up.

“Remember when the president got mad because I showed the whole world you’re mine?” he always says, and laughs himself silly at his own joke.

Viktor thinks he’s brilliant, but truth is, off the ice, he makes terrible puns. He cries openly at bad romantic comedies and Christmas movies. He buys plants and forgets to water them. He drools and talks in his sleep, mumbled Russian words and Yuuri’s name. He knows the entire history of figure skating, previous world records and personal bests, the whos and whens and wheres and hows, but he can’t point to Argentina on a map, can’t tell octopuses and squids apart. He loses his phone all the time, needs Yuuri to find it under the couch, on the bathroom sink, inside the fridge. He leaves the toothpaste uncapped. He needs reading glasses but he refuses to wear them, says they cramp his style (“But you look lovely in yours!” he tells Yuuri, kisses his cheek.) He’s mean and rude and blunt. He’s twenty seven years old, and he’s just know learning how to say he’s sorry.

Yuuri loves him so much he sometimes aches with the force of it.

“Never mind,” Viktor says, lips in a pout. “It’s from my grandma.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says. “How is she?”

“Misha says she’s doing better. He went to visit her last week with the baby.”

Yuuri hums. Viktor’s sister updates him on the Nikiforov family at least twice a week, mostly news he’s already heard about from Viktor. Viktor’s mother texts him too, sometimes, and once Viktor’s father sent him a YouTube video of funny dog Vines.

Viktor texts Yuuri’s mom and sister all the time, and in return they send him pictures of Makkachin, tell him to eat well, ask how they’re doing. Viktor and Minako play Words with Friends and he always complains because she beats him.

Yuuri wouldn’t mind hearing him complain for the rest of his life.

 

**12:47PM**

Latvia is very small, or maybe Yuuri drives too fast, or maybe both. They’ve crossed into Lithuania by lunchtime, when they stop to eat and fill the tank. The people around speak little English and broken Russian, and neither of the two of them speak Lithuanian, so mostly they get by with a lot of pointing and hand gestures.

They find a small convenience store and Viktor decides to buy snacks. Yuuri waits for him outside, leaning against the car, breathing forming puffs of cold smoke in the air.

 _Heard you guys are driving to Marseille?_ , Yurio texts him, no greetings, no smily face emoji.

 _Yeah_ , Yuuri replies.

 _What the hell_ , he gets back in less than one minute. _You never heard of planes?_

_It was Viktor’s idea._

_Of course it was. And you went along with it_ , followed by a rolling eyes emoji.

Yuuri would have found it rude in June, but it’s winter now, and Yurio is a fifteen year old who shows affection and concern by yelling and complaining. Yuuri forgives him, doesn’t try to change him.

He looks up from his phone in time to catch Viktor snapping a picture of him.

“Viktor!” he says, blushing. Viktor laughs.

“You just looked so cute,” he says, and shows Yuuri the picture on Instagram, with the caption _On a trip with my favorite man in the world!_

Phichit has already liked it.

 

**10:10PM**

They have been driving for hours, long enough that they reach Poland and keep going. Viktor has read _Ranma 1/2_ twice, listened to his junior days CD three times, napped once. But mostly he’s been awake, quiet, his left hand resting comfortably on Yuuri’s thigh.

It’s very dark outside when they decide to call it a day. They find a hotel, where they’re lead to a small and dirty room again. Viktor turns his nose up at the bed but lies down anyway, his pale skin a stark contrast against the dusty brown of the sheets.

Viktor belongs in five star hotels with huge elevators and silk sheets. He should be at his apartment in St. Petersburg, falling asleep on the couch with the television on, or at the rink practicing quadruple flips over and over, or maybe even in Hasetsu, cuddling up to Makkachin and drinking sake, not in a smelly hotel in the middle of Poland.

Yuuri wants to skate, but he reaches out to Viktor instead, fingers wrapping around his ankle. Viktor smiles at him, lazy and languid, spread out and relaxed in this cheap hotel bed.

Yuuri surges up to kiss him. Desperation is building up inside him, threatening to swallow him whole; he kisses Viktor deeply, furiously, trying to eat him up.

Viktor breaks the kiss with gentle hands on Yuuri’s cheeks.

“Hey,” he says. “Slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”

 _Yes, you are_ , Yuuri thinks, but he doesn’t say it, choosing instead to take his and Viktor’s clothes off.

When they’re both naked he lies on top of Viktor and kisses him for minutes that feel like hours. Viktor puts his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders, his hair, his chest, his ass. Yuuri grunts against his mouth.

Yuuri is a skater, but he’s never done well in the winter, the cold creeping into his bones making him sad and anxious. It’s always been like that, ever since he was a little boy and Takeshi called him a baby for crying while Yuuko frowned and held him. He could never really put these feelings into words, never knew how to express himself with anything other than his body.

This is what he tries to do when he thrusts into Viktor and bites his shoulder. He thinks, maybe if they’re close enough, maybe if he proves himself worthy as a boyfriend, as a person, not just a skater, maybe if he buries himself into Viktor and _stays_ —

Maybe Viktor will stay, too.

Later, after they’ve come, Viktor screaming Yuuri’s name, they stare at each other for a long time. Viktor runs his fingers through Yuuri’s hair. They fall asleep like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -so the final will be in barcelona in the anime! for the sake of this fic, let's pretend it'll be in marseille. also i'm choosing to ignore all the makkachin nonsense; the dog will forever be alive and well
> 
> this chapter is not as good as i wanted it to be, but i wanted to get it out of the way. either way, i had fun writing it. hope you had fun reading it too!


	3. Chapter 3

**December 3, a grey snowy Saturday on a German road, 10:39AM**

The glue of the blue post-it is sticky on Yuuri’s forehead. Viktor peeled his own off ages ago, because Yuuri was unimaginative enough to write _Domo-kun_ , which Viktor got right with two questions.

Now he’s more staring at Viktor than trying to guess what’s written on his post-it, watching Viktor’s handsome profile, his long and pointy nose, his wrists dipped over the steering wheel.

He knows he’s human, and a man, and famous. He sighs.

“Am I a figure skater?” he asks, because Viktor’s idea of fame is how well one is known on the ice.

“Yes,” Viktor sing-songs.

“Am I going to the Grand Prix Final?”

“Yes!”

Then quieter, whispered only for the space between them: “Do you love me?”

Viktor smiles, small and soft, and doesn’t take his eyes off the road when he says “Yes.”

“I’m Yuuri Katsuki,” Yuuri says.

“You are!” Viktor cheers. Yuuri unglues the post-it from his forehead and sees his own name written in shaky, messy kanji, because Viktor wrote it one-handed while driving, his body twisted to block it from Yuuri’s view.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, voice coming out entirely fond.

“I’m amazing,” Viktor winks.

Yuuri rolls his eyes and pokes Viktor on the ribs.

Viktor squirms away with a laugh. It was a regular Wednesday when Yuuri, flushed and delighted, ghosted his fingers over figure skating legend Viktor Nikiforov’s side for the first time and Viktor laughed so hard he cried.

“Stop it,” Viktor says, slapping Yuuri’s hand halfheartedly. “As your number one fan—”

(“You’ve been here what, four days?” Minako growled once, eyeing Viktor up and down. “I’ve been here twenty years. _I’m_ Yuuri’s number one fan.”

“I resent that,” Takeshi said, frowning.)

“—I’d appreciate a little more gratitude and less insulting of my person, you know.”

“Minako-sensei would beg to differ. Phichit-kun, too,” Yuuri says, but he scoots closer to Viktor’s seat and kisses his cheek.

Viktor hums contently.

 

**12:09PM**

Viktor’s phone rings. Yuuri reaches into Viktor’s pants pocket and fishes out the phone, accepts the call and holds the phone to Viktor’s ear.

Viktor says a few words in Russian. Then he takes the phone from Yuuri’s hand, hits something on the screen and places the phone on the cupholder close to the gear.

“Yurio, you’re on speaker,” he says cheerfully.

“Where are you guys?” Yuri asks.

“Hello, Yurio-kun,” Yuuri says, fondly. He misses Yuri. “We’re somewhere in Germany.”

“Are you stupid?” he snarls. “Didn’t you hear there’s supposed to be a storm in Germany tonight?”

“We didn’t,” Viktor and Yuuri answer at the same time. Viktor giggles.

“Fuck’s sake,” Yuri says.

“Language,” Yuuri chides. Yuri huffs so loud the sound of it fills the entire car.

“Whatever,” he says. “Just, find a place to stay and don’t drive in the snow, okay?”

“Are you worried about us, Yurio?” Viktor mock-gasps. “That’s so sweet!”

“You are such a loser,” Yuri hisses. “Bye, nerds.”

He hangs up on them.

Viktor sighs, smiles softly.

“He’s growing up,” he says.

“He really is,” Yuuri smiles.

 

**1:45PM**

It starts to snow outside. Yuuri, in the comfort and warmth of the inside of the car, doesn’t notice; he’s too busy turning the pages of _Ranma 1/2_ , looking at the drawings because the only Russian he can read is Viktor’s name written on the inside of the cover. But Viktor sneezes, and Yuuri blinks, looks up.

“Bless you,” he says.

“ _Spasiba_ ,” Viktor replies, automatic and distracted.

He looks serious and tall, back straight, eyes never leaving the road. He’s wearing Yuuri’s JSF jacket, the sleeves too short to reach his wrists. Viktor says he took it by accident, oh, he just grabbed the first warm thing he saw, silly him. Yuuri thinks he’s lying.

Yuuri takes his phone out of his pocket. His lock screen is still Vicchan, but his background is a selfie, Yuuri and Viktor and Makkachin squeezed together to fit in the picture, the three of them on Yuuri’s tiny bed back at the onsen.

He opens the camera app and snaps a picture of Viktor, pale and bright against the snowy landscape, a small frown between his brows, hair uncombed. He doesn’t share it on social media like Viktor did, like Phichit or Chris would do. Instead keeps it for himself, like he wants to keep Viktor.

 

**2:28PM**

It’s a little late for lunch, so there are only five people besides them in the small, cold restaurant. Viktor orders fish sticks with mashed potatoes (Viktor loves mashed potatoes, says it was his favorite food before Yuuri introduced him to katsudon) and Yuuri eats noodles. There’s a TV buzzing with static near them, showing news in a language neither of them understands.

In between bites of food, they talk about Yuuri’s programs. Yuuri is confident in his short program, knows he can show the world what eros is, even if his true eros is for only Viktor to see, and his exhibition program is coming along nicely, too. But the free skating still gives him pause, too many things he still can’t get right, jumps he still can’t land. 

He hasn’t skated in three days, since they started their little trip, which is the most he has gone without skating since he was seven years old. He knows it’s the same for Viktor, who must be feeling even more restless than Yuuri. So maybe that’s why he says, after sighing, “Maybe instead of drinking after a competition, you should drink _before_ it.”

Yuuri doesn’t get it. Yuuri knows Viktor means _loosen up, have fun with your skating_ , but what he actually says is rude and mean, and Yuuri frowns.

“You’re going to make me cry in a parking lot again,” he says, not unkind.

“We’re not even in a parking lot,” Viktor snaps back.

Yuuri stares at him. Viktor sighs.

“Sorry,” he says, holding Yuuri’s hand on the table. “I’m tired.”

Yuuri doesn’t say anything, but he reaches out with his free hand and pats Viktor’s hair, which means _I forgive you, I’ll forgive you anything, I love you_.

It’s still snowing when they leave the restaurant. Viktor can’t get the car to start, so he calls his uncle, speaks to him in Russian so quick and loud it gives Yuuri a headache. Eventually he steps out, and Yuuri watches as Viktor walks to the front of the car to open its hood. 

It’s cold outside, Viktor is not even wearing a scarf; Yuuri gets fidgety after five minutes, but soon Viktor gets back inside the car, shivering. He turns the key and the car rumbles to life beneath their feet.

Viktor hangs up the phone after a few more words with his uncle.

“He said to send you his regards, and good luck at the Final. He’ll be cheering,” Viktor says.

“Oh,” Yuuri flushes. Affection from Viktor’s family is still new, still something to get used to. “Tell him I say the same. I mean, about the regards, not about the Final. I send him my regards, too, I’m not wishing him luck in the Final because he’s not competing in the Final. I mean—”

Viktor laughs.

“I know what you mean, my love.”

 

**11:38PM**

The storm Yurio warned them about comes indeed. They find a hotel and decide to stay the night, before it gets too dark and impossible to see the road. This one is better than the other two they’ve stayed at, but it still smells funny, like mold and dead rats, and the shower is still too small to fit them both.

Yuuri gets a strange text just as he’s about to get into bed, something about an unauthorized purchase made with his credit card. Since it’s morning in Japan, he calls the credit card company.

“Yuuri,” Viktor whines, draping himself over Yuuri’s back and pouting. Yuuri pats his side while he talks to the woman on the phone, trying to explain that he did, in fact, use his credit card in Germany for gas.

Viktor sighs and detaches himself from Yuuri. He lies in bed and soon he’s distracted, tapping away on his phone, earphones in, mouthing something— a song, maybe.

It takes Yuuri almost twenty minutes and all his personal information to convince the lady he is himself and is telling her the truth. Drained, he turns his phone off and lies next to Viktor, who also puts his phone aside and turns to face Yuuri.

They stare at each other for long seconds. Viktor’s eyes are very blue, darker than the sky, almost the same color as the sea back in Hasetsu. His hair is so blonde it’s almost silver. There’s stubble on his chin and his cheeks, because he forgot to shave this morning.

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, cupping a cheek with his left hand, the facial hair itching against his palm. Viktor blinks slowly. “I—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -domo-kun is the nhk trophy's mascot  
> -spasiba means thank you in russian. please correct me if i'm wrong!  
> -unrelated but episode 10 cured my anxiety watered my crops fed my children
> 
> next chapter will be the last chapter, so i'm making a playlist for their road trip! in the meantime, have fun with [this one](http://8tracks.com/hellodeer/guess-it-shows) :)


	4. Chapter 4

**December 4th, 2016, the coldest Sunday of Yuuri’s life, a tiny hotel room in Germany, 12:01AM**

“—just want you to know,” Yuuri says. Swallows. “that you don’t have to force yourself.”

“Force myself?” Viktor asks, frowning.

“You don’t have to force yourself to be here, with me,” Yuuri says. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to say, and as the words leave his mouth he is empty and sad, he wants to want to cry. “If you want to be someplace else next week, it’s okay. I understand.”

Viktor is quiet for a moment, his eyes going wide. Yuuri draws circles with his thumb on Viktor’s cheek, holding back his tears and his desire to run away screaming. Finally, Viktor seems to recover from his shock and says, “Why are you trying to push me away?”

His voice is high, hurt, trembling.

“I’m not!” he says, frustrated that Viktor doesn’t understand. “I just mean, you love skating. You love competing, right?”

“No,” Viktor says.

“You do!” Yuuri says. “And it’s fine if you go back, I don’t mind. I mean, I mind, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to be with me or—”

Viktor has tears in his eyes.

“You are very cruel,” he says, holds Yuuri’s wrists and removes Yuuri’s hands from his face, turns on the bed, his back to Yuuri.

Yuuri wants to call his name, but the lump on his throat grows bigger, bigger, bigger. He wants to reach out and touch him, but his hand falls lifeless on the pillow, because doing nothing is better than having Viktor pull away from his touch. Yuuri turns his back to Viktor, too, and cries very quietly into his hands.

The ring Viktor gave him for his birthday is heavy and cold on his finger. He knows Viktor loves him, but he also knows Viktor misses skating, misses the glamour and flashiness of competitions, misses people screaming his name in adoration. He doesn’t want to keep Viktor from the world, doesn’t want Viktor to end up hating him for it. So he needs to let Viktor go, even if he never wants to.

But he never meant to hurt Viktor, is the thing. He thought Viktor would be relieved to finally be free of his duty as Yuuri’s coach. He can’t see where he was cruel, but if Viktor says he was, if Viktor is hurt—

Yuuri vibrates with guilty and anxiety.

He cries himself to a fitful sleep, and he dreams of young Viktor again, long hair loose around his shoulders.

“See this?” Viktor asks, opening his arms to indicate the ice, the empty rink. He smiles. “This is all for you.”

“I don’t want it,” Yuuri says. He has a voice this time, and a body. He skates close to Viktor and touches the tip of his hair. “I want you.”

“Well!” Viktor says cheerfully. “That can be arranged!”

He wakes up in the morning and blinks slowly. Viktor’s breathing is regular, the sound familiar and soothing. Yuuri turns on the bed and hugs Viktor’s back, buries his nose in Viktor’s hair.

Viktor, awake, turns in Yuuri’s arms, ducks his head to plant a kiss on Yuuri’s chest, just above his heart. Yuuri knows it means forgiveness.

It was Yuuri who kissed him first, when he got back home after declaring his love for Viktor on national televison and asked, shy, “Did you understand what I said?”

“A little,” Viktor said. “I asked Mari-san to translate it for me, but she said it was too ridiculous and I should ask you to do it.”

So Yuuri did, and Viktor went “oh” and smiled, and Yuuri felt so drunk in love he grabbed Viktor by the shoulder and kissed him.

He does the same now, kisses Viktor deeply and slowly, hands buried in his hair. They kiss and kiss and kiss, and soon they’re naked, clothes and blankets pushed to the floor. Viktor is on top of him but Yuuri flips them over, pokes Viktor until he sits up with his back against the wall. Then Yuuri rides him slowly, sweetly, arms around Viktor’s shoulders. Viktor’s hands burn holes on Yuuri’s waist.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, and “Yuuri,”, again and again, Yuuri Yuuri Yuuri Yuuri Yuuri, kissing his shoulder and his neck and his cheek and his lips, coming with Yuuri’s name on his lips.

Yuuri cries again.

 

**1:54PM**

The storm wasn’t that bad, and the roads are clear enough that they leave the hotel after breakfast and get to France by lunchtime. Viktor is napping with his head against the window, after confessing he didn’t get any sleep the night before. Yuuri is driving one-handed, his right hand closed around Viktor’s.

Viktor’s CD is playing again. It’s on the final song, a beautiful and sad piano piece that Viktor used as his free skating music the year he won the World Junior Championships, the year Yuuri saw him on TV for the first time and was blown away.

The last track, though, is this:

“Hello, my sweet boy,” Elena’s voice fills the car, cheerful and so alive. Viktor’s translated her words for Yuuri, and he’s had them memorized since. “I hope you had fun this season! Have you thought about what you’re gonna do next season? I will support you, whatever it is you want to do. I’m your mother,” she’s silent for a moment. “You’re always asking me to compose such sad music for your programs, my son. Why are you so sad? Why are you always alone? I know you love skating, but there are other things in life,” she sighs. “You and your sister are so alike, you with your skating and her with her ballet. I love you both so much it’s like I swallowed the entire universe. Here’s something I’ve been working on, just for you.”

The opening notes of the first version of Stammi Vicino start.

Yuuri’s been to Viktor’s parents’ house, just outside St. Petersburg. Elena’s piano was so big and old, loved and beautiful, and she played like Viktor skated, with the effortlessly and flawlessly that came with years of practice.

She had played in the most important concert halls around the world, she told him, with the most famous orchestras and conductors, before she came back to Russian at twenty eight and fell in love.

Elena was short but Viktor’s father was tall, still built like the hockey player he had been. It was Evgeni who first took Viktor and Marina to an ice rink, hoping his children would love the cold and the sound of the blades cutting through the surface like he did. Viktor did. Marina did not.

Marina loved ballet, though. They took classes together, Marina and Viktor, both of them the top students at their academy. Viktor went to all her recitals and Marina cheered in all his competitions, they bugged their mother to compose songs for them, pouted to get their father to give them what they wanted, hid Misha’s toys and felt bad about it when he cried, and when the boys at school bullied Viktor for being too feminine, Marina would beat them up until her knuckles were bloody. The Marina and Viktor show, the Nikiforov twins against the world.

She lives two blocks away from Viktor in St. Petersburg, used to look after Makkachin when Viktor was away for competitions. She’s a principal at the Mariinsky Ballet, a rising Russian star, and Viktor speaks of her with pride and love.

“She’s my best friend,” Viktor always says. “She and Misha are.”

Misha is two years younger than the twins, a quiet man who always seems to be frowning. He’s a doctor, married to a lovely university professor. They have a six month old son named Dimitri. Even in Japan, Viktor would sometimes shop for baby clothes and toys, taking Yuuri along with him to ask “What about this? Do you think Misha and Liza would like this?”, to which Yuuri gently reminded Viktor he did not know these people. When Viktor is angry, which is always subtle and cutting and petty, he calls his brother Mikhail.

Yuuri has also met Viktor’s favorite uncle and Evgeni’s only brother. Pyotr is a mechanic who used to take Viktor to car fairs and exhibitions, show him how to fix engines in his workshop, teach Viktor how to drive when he was barely tall enough to see over the steering wheel, apparently all in attempt to make Viktor more manly, make him give up that girlish sport. Instead Viktor became a champion figure skater who likes cars, and Pyotr the proud uncle who attended all his European competitions and cheered for him like mad.

Yuuri loves Viktor’s family like his own. He imagines what it’d be like to have them all together, his mom and Elena, his dad and Evgeni, his sister and Marina and Misha, Minako-sensei and Pyotr. He wants to make it happen, some day.

He squeezes Viktor’s hand.

 

**4:39PM**

It’s still a long way to Marseille, on the white and slippery French roads, the trees and grass covered with snow. Yuuri drives in silence, too caught up in his own thoughts to pay attention to anything other than the path in front of him.

Except he hears Viktor mumble _nani ga suki desuka_ , so he turns his head to find Viktor frowning at his phone, earphones in, whispering to himself. On the screen, Yuuri can see a tiny green owl.

“Viktor,” he says, very slowly. Viktor takes out one earphone and turns his attention to Yuuri. “Is that Duolingo?”

Yuuri’s seen Viktor flushed countless time, after skating to win gold and after practice and drunk and in the hot springs and during sex, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Viktor look _embarrassed_ , his cheeks colored a faint pink.

“I’m not good with languages!” he says defensively, like he thinks Yuuri will mock him for trying to learn Japanese.

Viktor’s been in Japan for eight months, but he talks mostly in English to Yuuri and his family, and Hasetsu is small and forgiving, used to foreigners. Yuuri is delighted and proud every time Viktor speaks in his broken Japanese to anyone in town.

But Viktor is _still_ trying to learn, and it hits him.

“Oh,” Yuuri says. “You’re staying.”

“What?” Viktor asks, but Yuuri doesn’t hear him, not really, he just stops the car by the side of the road and gets out, circling around until he’s opening Viktor’s door, not noticing the snow falling on his hair and the cold air. He knows enough Russian by now to understand Viktor says _What are you doing, you crazy man?_ when he climbs into Viktor’s lap and closes the door with a loud _thump_.

“Viktor,” he says, cupping Viktor’s face, very serious. “Are you going back to Japan after the Grand Prix Final?”

“What the hell,” Viktor says, closing his fingers around Yuuri’s wrists. “Of course I’m going back! My dog is in Japan, and you’re there, too. Here, look—”

And Viktor reaches for his phone, opens a saved link on his browser to show Yuuri: a list of houses for sale in Hasetsu.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he says, and there’s that flush again, embarrassed and _shy_. “I’ve been looking for the perfect place since before you kissed me.”

Yuuri is so relieved he sags against Viktor and hugs him. Viktor hugs him back.

“I thought you were leaving,” he breathes. He wants to cry again. “I thought you were going back to Russia.”

“Why would you think that, solnyshko?” Viktor’s voice is quiet, slightly upset. He rubs circles on Yuuri’s back.

Viktor calls him _little sun_ even when it’s snowing outside, even when Yuuri has been nothing but moody and miserable for days. Yuuri doesn’t deserve him, but Yuuri is also very selfish and very greedy.

“I have anxiety,” is all he says, shrugging. “If you still want to compete—”

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, firmly. He pushes Yuuri back a little, looks him in the eye. “I’m retired. I don’t want to compete anymore. I’m old and I didn’t even like it anyway.”

Yuuri blinks. “You didn’t?”

“No,” Viktor sighs. “I’m your coach because I _want_ to be your coach. I’ve had more fun these past few months than I’ve had in years,” he smiles, soft around the edges. “I’m happy. You make me happy.”

Yuuri really does cry. Viktor kisses his forehead and laughs through his own tears.

“So you’re staying,” Yuuri says.

“Yes,” Viktor smiles.

“How long?”

“As long as you’ll have me.”

Thing is, Yuuri’s been in love his whole life, with the idea of Viktor at first, this golden and unattainable god. Then with the man himself, quiet and flawed and so lonely. Viktor is the best thing that’s happened to him. He is never letting go.

“Forever, then,” he says. Viktor kisses him, deep and passionate and lasting.

When they pull apart Viktor smiles, says “Okay.”

“I love you,” Yuuri says.

“I love you, too, my Yuuri.”

Yuuri ducks his head to kiss Viktor where his neck meets his shoulder, breathes in the scent of deodorant and rain and jasmine.

 

**7PM**

They keep driving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was just a lot of inner monologue but i had fun! it was good practice for me :) anyway, we’ve come to the end. thank you to everyone who read, left kudos, comments and bookmarked! i hope you guys liked it. this is the first long fic i’ve ever finished, go me!
> 
> thank you to raiza and weiai especially!!
> 
> also shout out to google maps, wikipedia’s articles on european roads, and the lady who runs the blog understand russia dot com. you guys are the real mvps
> 
> also!!!!!!!!! there’s a playlist for the fic!!!!!!!!!! you can listen to it [here](http://8tracks.com/hellodeer/the-road-that-stretches-out-ahead) :)
> 
> thank you so much for reading!!!!!! see you guys soon!

**Author's Note:**

> -we dont know where the gp final will be in the anime yet, so im using the real life place for the final this year, marseille. i'll prob be proven wrong in a couple of weeks but oh well  
> -title from two of us by the beatles (obg raiza pela sugestão e pela ajuda!!!!)


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